I remember when my mom and I used to sit around watching people in the mall. Only she taught me that the phrase for it goes the other way around: people watching. That’s what I’m doing now. People in scrubs carrying thermoses. A police officer with a clear plastic shield over his face who I can tell wants to sit down on that bench so badly. There’s a card table sitting out front of the sliding glass doors and it looks as if these two nurses manning it are selling lemonade when really they’re checking temperatures. I’ve only caught them sending one person away so far and I had so many questions I couldn’t get answered. I have no idea if people around here are happy or sad or what because it turns out it’s a whole lot harder to read people’s eyes than novels would lead you to believe. But I assume most people are sad. Or at least tense.
I can’t help thinking how Arlo didn’t even have someone sitting in the parking lot waiting for him. All of it makes me feel like a failure. I’m failing my mom. I’m failing Chester. I already failed Arlo, even failed to organize—I don’t know—a memorial or something. I have never felt more useless in my entire life.
Inside my car, I’ve got my phone to keep me company.
Dannie: But did you even explain to him what happened?
It’s still fresh. I mean, Mom didn’t get a hold of a phone charger until last night. She’s had a chest X-ray, tubes in her nose, an IV drip, and they’ve been checking her oxygen levels on the regular using a squeezy thing (not the technical term) over her fingertip.
Max: Oh he knows
Dannie: You’re sure?
Max: YES.
Max: Also what does it matter?
Hold the phone. I’d been pretty sure that my friends were required to switch to hating Jonah posthaste. It’s written in the Girl Code right between Don’t Be on a Diet on Your Friend’s Birthday and Share Thy Hair Ties.
Because you know who makes excuses for boys’ bad behavior? Dumbass girls. And I am not a dumbass girl. Here is the only fact that matters: His lips were on her mouth. I repeat: On her mouth. His ex-girlfriend. During a pandemic. Any additional information can only be offered as a reason, of which there are—let me check, oh right—no good ones.
Imani: Well.
Max: You’re not seriously making excuses for him, are you?
Imani’s moving tomorrow, but for now, we’re pretending that she’s not because—hello—I’ve already gotten all the reality checks I need, thanks.
Dannie: No. I’m not
Max: Good. Because it couldn’t be more obvious that I was just a distraction
Imani: It could be a little more obvious
Max: How do you not see what I’m saying? OK. It’s like you’re marathon training and closet organizing, only picture this: Jonah’s corona-hobby was . . . me
Max: He needed a warm body. I could have been anyone. I was interchangeable. Fungible.
Imani: Ooo that was a vocab word last year!
Max: But great news, I deliver! So, you know, that was real convenient for him.
Dannie: I hate seeing you like this
Max: I’m not like anything. Really. I don’t even care. I’m simply trying to point out how messed up his logic is. The second I was unavailable to him, he was on to the next thing
Imani: More like on to the last thing, to be fair
Max: Exactly. And it’s not like I care, really. I have way bigger things to worry about than Jonah Stephens
Dannie: Uh-oh. She first and last named him
Imani: Shoot you’re riiiiiiight
Max: What’s that supposed to mean?
Dannie: It means that you must really like him because you used his first and last name
Max: That is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. That’s his name.
Imani: You know, for not wanting to talk about him, you sure are talking about him a lot
So. I didn’t say my phone was good company.
I switch the ringer off and passive-aggressively ignore my best friends, who will understand because get this: That’s why they’re my best friends. They’re not just like, Oh hey, Max didn’t respond for an hour, guess it’s time to go find a new best friend. See how that works?
Not that I’m sour. It’s just that the one annoying part is how I got used to talking to Jonah during the day, which in hindsight was my bad. Time to recalibrate. To detox. Go cold turkey. Imani’s moving on. Jonah moved on. And I’m here. Right here.
I watch the hospital doors slide open and closed. I put my headphones on. The moment I realize that the Mountain Goats are playing and that the Mountain Goats are from his playlist, I turn it off. Or at least that’s precisely what I’m going to do, after this song.
chapter twenty-six
JONAH
Well, I’ve lost it. I stand back, looking at my bedroom window, an uncapped marker in my right hand like the smoking gun of insanity. Two days locked in my bedroom has finally tipped the scales.
I am playing Pictionary with myself. On a window. I did get a washable marker this time.
I guess in a perfect world, I thought Mrs. Clodden would play along across the street. No. In a perfect world, Max would be sitting outside on the hood of her old Civic, sunglasses resting on the bridge of her nose, hair blowing in the breeze.
But this is not a perfect world, which becomes more apparent with every passing day.
“In the weeds,” I murmur, guessing at my own picture, because, as mentioned, I’m nuts.
It was a subpar picture, to be honest. My weeds look like flowers, and the dog I drew looks like a chair with a tail.
I wipe the picture away with my sleeve and rewrite my Hello . . . though from the inside. I’ve mastered writing mirror script now, at least, so I’m basically as smart as Da Vinci.
It’s probably just going to remind me how much I screwed up everything and that Max hates me and that I have now been imprisoned for my sins. I might even be facing capital punishment—Olivia hasn’t spoken to me once, and she could definitely build a guillotine in two days. Or maybe Kate will just snap my neck and save the mess. Winter still stares at me in grizzled disapproval all day, which is yet another handy visual cue that I let literally everybody down, even one of my heroes. That takes a special kind of failure. I guess Dad still likes me, but he did send me a relatively scathing message about responsibility: “Jonah I expect more out of you . . .” Why? When did I ever give the impression I was a functional human being? I throw up air into toilets, people.
I did send Ernest another email yesterday. I guess I felt too guilty after getting his hopes up about Arlo, and told myself I wouldn’t ask . . . but I’ve had a lot of time to think. About all the ways I screwed things up, for sure, but also that last lingering question: What did it mean, that line?
I may also have included that Max broke up with me and my life was in shambles . . . I have a real issue with moderating my emails lately.
I’ve also sent ten messages to Max. No replies. I did manage to get through to Imani and Dannie and start a little group chat, and at least have been able to check in on Max’s mom that way, who is still in the hospital while I am locked in my mini Bastille.
“Hello, is it brie you’re looking for,” I murmur as I write.
I should exercise or something. Clear my head. I have been watching YouTube workout videos . . . I just haven’t been working out with them. I’ve also been eating chips three meals a day. Why did I go to a gas station for supplies? Why did I go to a boat party in the first place? Why do I do all of the things that I do because they are all wrong?
Okay, a little workout. Or a shower. It’s almost noon . . . I could have a nap . . .
There’s a knock on my door. It’s stiff rapping, but not the wood-crunching power of Kate’s iron fists, so I step closer, making sure the towel is firmly wedged beneath the door.
�
�Hello . . .”
“Having fun in there?” Olivia says, her tone still slightly acidic.
“It’s swell,” I mutter. “I thought you hated me.”
“I hate raucous laughter and the sound of someone eating an orange. I dislike you.”
“I really am sorry. I just—”
“I also hate rationalizations. Apologies should never require an addendum.”
“So . . . you forgive me?” I ask hopefully.
I could really use a win. A small glimmer of redemption.
“I do not,” she confirms, dashing that hope. “But I did notice you drawing pictures on the windows and thought a mental health analysis was in order. I also recommended a virtual appointment.” I feel the door shift as she leans against it. “Kate is taking you to get a test today. Then if all goes well, you can hopefully return to society as a reformed—read, less idiotic—offender.”
“That’s something.”
“Is Max speaking to you?”
“No. I think she legit hates me.”
“Understandable. Mom goes to the hospital and boyfriend goes to the ex.”
“The ex was coincidental,” I mutter. “It was the distraction I was after.”
“The memorial was nice. I planted that Japanese maple. I even had a plaque made.”
I lean against the door as well, silent for a moment. “It sounds nice.”
“Was it worth it? The grand distraction?”
I consider that. “I don’t know. I made it through . . . so maybe.”
“At a pretty high cost, I would say. You are minus one girlfriend, correct? And made it through what exactly . . . being sad? Acknowledging the facts? Mourning your mom?”
“It’s worked so far.”
“Has it?” she counters.
“It’s all I have—”
“It’s all you choose to have. If you never say goodbye, they can never be gone.”
I feel my eyes burning. I stare at the window and the message I wrote to no one.
“Kate will be ready soon,” Olivia says softly. “Get changed.”
I listen to her walk away.
* * *
• • •
“Just tilt your head back a little and . . . there.”
“Ugh,” I manage, feeling the swab poke something that can’t be far from my brain while the nurse’s eyes smile encouragingly at me from behind a plastic face shield.
“Very good,” he says through his mask. “You’re all done.”
I must look really pitiable, because he’s been talking to me like I’m a toddler since I walked in. He’s probably in his mid-thirties, with some square-framed glasses, a comb-over, and a neck tattoo poking over his collar that kind of looks like an AK-47, so he’s really throwing me off, especially since this clinic had a fountain in the lobby and possibly a real Caravaggio.
I keep thinking about what Olivia said, and about Max, and about where I went wrong.
“Did you always work here?” I ask him while I do a weird rabbit thing with my nose.
He shakes his head. “Used to be in emerge. Down at Huntington.”
“Must have seen a lot of stuff, huh. Like . . . mental distress?”
“Yeah.”
“Can I ask you a serious medical question?” I say as he puts the swab in a tube and writes some notes. I check his name tag again. “And can I call you Craig?”
“What else would you call me?”
“If you did something bad to someone . . . okay, that sounds awful. If my girlfriend caught me kissing my ex at a boat party—”
“So that’s why you’re here,” he mutters. “In fairness, it still sounds awful.”
“I know. It gets worse. Her mom is sick and she’s alone and I’ve just . . . screwed it all up. Bad. Probably irreparably, she-never-wants-to-see-me-again bad. But I’m worried about her.”
Craig looks up from the notepad, furrowing his prodigious eyebrows. “So what’s the question?”
“Is there anything I can do for her? Like . . . what do people need at times like that?”
I know I have a therapist and all, but Dr. Syme didn’t have any openings this week and I really need sound medical advice before next Wednesday.
“Hold still; I’m taking one more temperature reading.” Craig shoots me in the head with a laser and writes something down, then puts a stethoscope to my chest. “Well, if her mom is sick . . . she’s scared. And do you know what people really need when it’s scary?”
I think about that. “Distraction?”
“They just need you to be there for them. No questions asked.”
I chew on that one for a moment. No grand gestures? No flowers or music or candles on a hill? It’s basically the opposite of how I try to fix everything . . . with Band-Aids made of charcuterie and good intentions. Even my simple gestures are over the top. And, to be honest, it hasn’t worked. I guess Olivia was telling me the same thing, and Carlos, and maybe I should have listened. Or maybe I just needed Craig and oh okay he’s already left.
I sigh and sanitize my hands and go to meet a masked Kate in the car. The back seat is separated from the front by a drop-sheet sealed with duct tape . . . I brought my bubble with me.
“Did he say you’re screwed or what?” Kate asks dryly.
“I guess I’ll find out in two days. But also . . . yes,” I reply, buckling my seat belt and lowering the windows further.
“So it’s back to your cell.”
“Back to my cell,” I say, sighing. “I wouldn’t be averse to some vegetables. Can you throw some in later?”
“Sure.”
We ride in silence for a little while, my head pressed against the cool glass. “Kate?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks.”
She doesn’t say anything for a moment. When she does, her voice is weirdly quiet. “You’re welcome.”
Imani: She’s at Huntington Beach Hospital. Five days now.
Jonah: Any updates?
Imani: Stable, as far as Max knows. She just sits in the parking lot half the day. Can’t go inside.
Dannie: She was finally able to get tested a few days ago. Negative.
Jonah: I was wondering about that . . . I just got mine back today too. Good to go.
Imani: So you can go make out with Ashley again?
Dannie: Whoa escalation much
Imani: Yeah I know. But I had to say something. This already feels too covert
Jonah: I deserve it. And you told her I said hi?
Dannie: Which of the last four hundred times
Jonah: Right. Did you talk to her today yet? Is she doing okay?
Imani: Oh she’s super
Dannie: IMANI
Imani: Sorry. Got some stuff going on here. I really was rooting for you Jonah
Imani: *Am*
Jonah: Thanks guys. I got to run
An email popped up while we were talking . . . from Ernest Robbins. I open it eagerly.
Dear Jonah Stephens,
Sorry to hear about you and Max. I hope it still works out between you. Take it from me . . . giving up is not the answer.
As for the infamous line, it’s probably less exciting than you think. Arlo was incorrect; it wasn’t about acting. I was a moody sort, but even I wasn’t that melodramatic.
I ad-libbed it on purpose. The original line was: “I won’t rest till he’s dead.” I was supposed to say it around that campfire the night before the battle, grim and quiet, lit up by the flames. But I didn’t like it. It felt empty.
My character had found so much along the way: a new sidekick, a new horse, and all those beautiful, quiet moments riding through the plains. I said “None of this really matters” to imply that maybe he could just ride off with his new friend, and fo
rget the entire vendetta, and live happily ever after in the wild.
Of course, we had a script. So I still had to go to town and kill that land baron. But I insisted the line stay . . . just as a hint that my character had found some perspective along the way. I suppose it was jarring. I know the writer hated it. But he was never going to get an Oscar anyway. I’m glad they used it.
I hope that helps.
—Winter
I read it again. And again. I feel a steady pressure building behind my eyes.
Mom would have loved it.
She wanted a little optimism in her cowboys. And I can think of nothing better than a secret wish to ride off into the sunset with a friend. I just wish I could tell her she was right. And maybe I am a bit of a mess lately, because my eyes are watering as I look up at Winter’s poster.
Wiping my face with my sleeve, I consider the first part of his email too. The quarantine is over—my bedroom is a testament to that. I finally cleaned it this morning, vacuuming up a truly disturbing amount of Dorito dust and cookie crumbs.
I also hugged Olivia, who claimed that I was making her emotionally ill and should be confined again, but I’m like 99 percent sure I felt a little squeeze back.
In total, I spent five days in semi-complete isolation. And I was lucky. Really, really lucky. I guess I knew that before. But I’ve had a lot of time to think. And I kept going back to Arlo. To how happy he seemed when Max told him about us trying to find Winter. To how young and energetic he seemed, and how that was stripped away so quickly. How his death left so much unfulfilled, and Chester without a home, and Max heartbroken. And what’s really happened to me during this quarantine? Just a string of inconveniences . . . a delay for Paris, a distant but healthy dad in Madrid, more time with my sister. My brain is good at inventing problems. But I missed all the real ones.
And, of course, it all brings me back to Max. To how giving up doesn’t feel like the answer to me, either.
Hello (From Here) Page 22